


Psalms

by paperstorm



Series: Deleted Scenes [97]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tag for <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1588682/?ref_=ttep_ep15">'Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid', 5x15</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psalms

**Author's Note:**

> Contains dialogue from the episode Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid, it belongs to Eric Kripke and Jeremy Carver.
> 
>  

  
_Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me._   
_Psalms 23:4_   


  
Bobby is out back when they find him, his chair facing away from the house and turned to a wooden pyre exactly like the one Sam built in the cemetery – only smaller. Small enough for one person. Part of Sam wants to be there for their adopted uncle and another part of him wants to run as far away as possible, because Bobby’s always been the strongest one of the three of them and Sam doesn’t think he could handle watching Bobby fall apart.  
  
Bobby feels them come up behind him, and says, “So, thinkin’ maybe I should apologize for losin’ my head back there.”  
  
“Bobby, you don’t owe us anything,” Sam tells him.  
  
“Hey, look, I don’t know squat from Shinola about love, but at least you got to spend five days with her, right?” Dean points out.  
  
“Right. Which makes things … a thousand times worse. She was the love of my life. How many times do I gotta kill her?” His voice wavers at the end and it hurts deep in Sam’s chest.  
  
“You gonna be okay, Bobby?” It’s a stupid question, and Sam knows it.  
  
Bobby shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “You boys should know, Karen told me why Death was here.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I know why he took a stroll through a cemetery in the sticks of South Dakota. He came for me.”  
  
“What d’you mean, _you_?” Dean asks, the frown on his face probably matching Sam’s.  
  
“Death came for me. He brought Karen back to send me a message.”  
  
“You? Why you?”  
  
“Because I’ve been helpin’ you, you sons-a-bitches!” Bobby cries, finally looking up at Dean. “I’m one of the reasons you’re still sayin’ _no_ to Lucifer, Sam.”  
  
“So this was like a hit on your life?” Dean asks, in angry disbelief.  
  
“I don’t know if they wanted to take my life or … my spirit. Either way, they wanted me outta the way.”  
  
Sam clenches his jaw and tries to pretend that new information doesn’t scare the crap out of him. “But you’re gonna be alright. Right, Bobby?”  
  
Bobby looks at him, hopelessness in his eyes, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat. He’s never seen Bobby look like that.  
  
“D’you want us to stick around for a while?” he asks. He wants Bobby to say yes, because he doesn’t want to be alone with Dean right now. The thing Dean hates the most in the world is when people he loves are hurting, and he’s not going to be happy tonight. Dean thrives on being able to help people, to fix their problems. Nothing is harder for him than when he can’t. At least if they stay at Bobby’s, they’ll all drink and argue about nothing and they’ll have a chance at escaping reality, if only for one night.  
  
Bobby shakes his head, though. “Get goin’.”  
  
“You sure?” Dean asks, exchanging a meaningful, sorrowful look with Sam over Bobby’s head. “Not like we have anything better to do.”  
  
“So I’m only worth spendin’ time with when nothin’ else is goin’ on?” Bobby grumbles.  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, though he keeps looking at Sam.  
  
Sam shakes his head, eyes locked with his brother’s, indicating he’s just as lost as Dean is right now.  
  
Bobby sighs after a moment. “I know it isn’t.”  
  
“We’ll order a pizza,” Sam suggests. He nods toward the pyre, toward the burning body of the woman Bobby loved that he and Dean never knew in life. “You can tell us about her.”  
  
Bobby keeps staring into the flames. “I’d like to be alone.”  
  
“Bobby,” Dean protests, but Bobby shakes his head again and cuts him off.  
  
“Please.”  
  
Sam isn’t thrilled with the idea, but he claps Bobby lightly on the shoulder anyway and starts to walk away. Dean follows him after a minute, and they walk, five feet apart from each other, back to the Impala. They climb into their only real home wordlessly, and Dean heads west, to nowhere in particular – or, if he does have a destination in mind, he doesn’t tell Sam about it. Sam doesn’t ask. It doesn’t matter.  
  
“Poor Bobby,” Sam says quietly, his voice barely audible in his own ears over the rhythmic whir of the tires on asphalt.  
  
Dean nods. “Yeah. I know. This one sucked.”  
  
“They all do lately.” Sam sighs and pushes his hair back. “Not usually for him, though. You think he’s gonna be okay?”  
  
“He had to kill his wife _twice_ , Sammy,” Dean says tiredly, and it means _no_.  
  
Sam nods and drops it because it’s too scary to consider what either of them are going to do if Bobby breaks. He’s the only thing in their life that stays steady, consistent. The one thing that’s remained solid under their feet. For years he’s been the only thing they can ever count on other than each other – even during the rare times Sam and Dean _couldn’t_ count on each other, they always had Uncle Bobby. If they lose that, Sam doesn’t know what hope they have left.  
  
“So, you wanna talk about it?”  
  
“Bobby?”  
  
“The other thing we’re not talking about.”  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows and shakes his head a little to say he doesn’t know what Sam’s referring to.  
  
“The demon blood thing.”  
  
Dean frowns. “We already talked about that.”  
  
“Yeah, in the panic room while I was half dead. We didn’t have a real conversation about it.”  
  
“What is there to say? I said it all that night. This time it wasn’t your fault, and we got it outta you, and now it’s fine.”  
  
“You’re not fine,” Sam argues, already expecting it before Dean rolls his eyes. “Please don’t lie to me. It’s a waste of both our time.”  
  
“Alright, I’m not. But not about that. I’m not mad at you.”  
  
“I’m not worried you’re mad at me. I’m worried you had to sit outside that room for hours listening to me detoxing and it screwed with your head.”  
  
“What d’you want me to say, Sam? Yeah, it fuckin’ sucks when we have to do that to you. It hurt like hell the first time and it hurt like hell this time too. But it’s over. I’m not sittin’ around wringing my hands about it, so you shouldn’t either. Okay? We got bigger problems.”  
  
Sam doesn’t have an answer that wouldn’t piss Dean off, so he drops this topic too. There have always been things they just don’t talk about, but lately being with Dean is like walking through a mine-field. Sam never knows when his brother is going to go off – what will upset him and what won’t. He used to know that. He used to know all Dean’s boundaries; what he’d willingly talk about and what was better left felt but unsaid between them. Now he can’t tell half the time.  
  
The last few months, Sam feels like he’s been watching Dean being torn down one brick at a time and he’s completely helpless to stop it from happening. Dean’s always been a little broken. After Hell, he was a _lot_ broken. But it was different. Now it’s worse, somehow. After Hell he was traumatized, warped, _haunted_. It was awful but at least he felt _something_. Now it’s like Dean’s just … empty. Finished. Sam’s terrified it means Dean’s getting ready to quit – that each new blow is just a step closer to the one that undoes Dean for good; that one of these days he’ll just hand Sam the car keys and walk away and never come back. Last year, when Ruby had him twisted, Sam truly believed he could stop the Apocalypse on his own. Now he knows he needs his brother; and now Dean’s the one giving up.  
  
“Where are we going?” Sam asks eventually, squinting as the setting sun slips behind the distant horizon, turning the cloudy sky orange.  
  
“Nowhere.”  
  
“So then let’s stop.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Sleep. Food. To not waste gas. Take your pick,” Sam mutters. “We’re just gonna end up doing whatever you want anyway.”  
  
Dean glances over at him, but Sam keeps looking out the window. “What’s up your ass?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Is that the problem?” Dean asks, with a smirk that Sam isn’t in the mood for.  
  
“Funny.”  
  
Dean sighs. “If I did something to piss you off I really don’t know what it was, so you’re gonna have to clue me in.”  
  
Sam closes his eyes and rubs his hands over his face – instantly feeling like a jerk. Nothing that’s happened in the last little while has been Dean’s fault. “You didn’t. Stuff’s just shitty.”  
  
“Thought we had a rule about not takin’ it out on each other when shit goes bad.”  
  
“Which neither of us have ever followed.”  
  
“Never,” Dean agrees. “We’re kind of assholes.”  
  
“Kind of.” Sam tries to smile and it almost works. It’s better than nothing.  
  
A few miles later, they pass a sign for the next town that Sam doesn’t see soon enough to read, and Dean slows the car down and takes the turn-off. Before Sam can ask, Dean’s pulling over to the gravel shoulder. He shuts the Impala off, and when the headlights go out they’re engulfed in near darkness in the absence of streetlights on the country road. Dean gets out of the car and walks around the front of it.  
  
Frowning, Sam gets out too. “Did you see something?” he asks, on alert just in case. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve unexpectedly run into something that needed killing in the middle of nowhere.  
  
Dean doesn’t answer. Instead he grabs the front of Sam’s jacket and pushes him up roughly against the closed door, shoving himself into Sam’s space and kissing him. He presses warm and solid into Sam, tongue sweeping into Sam’s slightly open mouth before Sam can get his head around what’s happening. A small, confused sound escapes past his lips but Dean swallows that too, his hands everywhere, his scent and heat in Sam’s mouth and nose and head.  
  
“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam finally manages to grind out, from between gritted teeth because Dean’s thigh is moving against his crotch and sending blood shooting to his cock; the pressure slow and steady and perfect because Dean annoyingly knows exactly how Sam likes it.  
  
“Shut up,” Dean advises. He kisses quickly down Sam’s jaw and then scrapes his teeth over Sam’s neck.  
  
“Someone could see,” Sam points out – his body ignoring what his mouth is saying; hands pushing up under Dean’s shirt to feel his skin, fingers squeezing into muscles as Dean bites him again, harder this time.  
  
“You don’t care ‘bout that.”  
  
“But you do.”  
  
“Not tonight.”  
  
Sam hears himself moan and nudges Dean’s face so he can kiss him again while Dean rocks his hips against Sam’s. It’s a cliché but it _gets_ to Sam, when Dean wants him so much he doesn’t care if they get caught. Arousal sparks inside Sam, blooming hot and intense in his gut, as Dean’s hardening cock rubs against his hip and Dean kisses him until Sam’s lungs scream for oxygen.  
  
“What’re we doin’?” he asks, breaking the kiss for just a moment to gasp for air. The cold, half-frozen breathes he draws in don’t satisfy the need and his chest still aches.  
  
“Fuck me,” Dean whispers, low and dirty, right in Sam’s ear. It sends shivers down Sam’s spine. “On the hood.”  
  
“We don’t have anything,” Sam protests weakly, wishing to hell that wasn’t the case. “Used it up last time.”  
  
“Don’t need it,” Dean tells him harshly, recklessly, and the wild look in his eyes stops Sam dead. Dean tries to pull him toward the front of the car but Sam plants his feet and doesn’t move. Dean frowns; insecurity that never quite goes away flashing in his green eyes. “What?”  
  
“Yes you do.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Need it.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes – a completely ineffective cover-up for the hurt Sam can see on his face. “Are you seriously turning me down right now?”  
  
Sam shakes his head. He tugs Dean back in; Dean goes, but reluctantly. Sam cups Dean’s cheek in his hand and kisses him slowly. “I’m not turnin’ you down. Never would, you know that. I’m just not gonna let you hurt yourself because you’re upset about Bobby.”  
  
“Would you fuckin’ not talk about Bobby right now?” Dean grumbles, but he makes no move to extract himself from Sam’s arms. “Fine, you big girl. Get your dick out, then.”  
  
It scares Sam, when Dean doesn’t care about himself, but he does what his brother asks; undoing the fly on his jeans as Dean does it too. Dean crowds into Sam’s space again and wraps his hand around both their erections, stroking quickly as he fucks his tongue back into Sam’s mouth. It’s quick and clumsy, needy and desperate; too rough to be loving but Sam’s happy to play along if it’s what Dean needs. Dean’s hand is somehow calloused and smooth against his headed flesh, squeezing their cocks together, finding the spots that make Sam lose himself in pleasure and them and Dean. Too much and not enough cascades together and it’s sharp and intense and over too quickly, and Sam comes back to himself with Dean mouthing messily at his neck and squeezing gently around his handful, coaxing out the last few pulses that have soft moans vibrating between them.  
  
“Wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” Sam asks, struggling to catch his breath.  
  
“Just wanted to,” Dean answers with a casual shrug and that panty-melting smirk of his that Sam hates because of how often it’s been sent in the direction of someone who isn’t him.  
  
Dean tucks himself back into his pants, grimacing at the mess in his hand and wiping it on the thigh of his jeans – no thought for the fact that Sam’s the one who’ll end up washing them.  
  
Sam gets his own pants done back up, still a little dizzy and confused but not exactly complaining about either, and raises his eyebrows when Dean makes eye contact.  
  
Dean laughs a little and rolls his eyes again. “Would you stop?”  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
Dean reaches for him, sliding his fingers into Sam’s hair, and kisses him slowly. “Thinking. Analyzing. Whatever you’re doin’ in that big brain. Sometimes shit just is what it is.”  
  
It’s not quite a satisfying answer, but Sam doesn’t want to argue anymore. He wraps his arms back around his brother’s waist and lets their lips slide together for another minute or two.  
  
“What now?” he asks eventually, shivering in the cool air now that they’re not moving.  
  
“We find a liquor store,” Dean answers decisively. He pats Sam on the chest and walks back around to his side of the Impala. “We buy as much as we can carry, we get a room, and we drink until we can’t remember today.”  
  
A year ago, Sam would have objected on the grounds that using alcohol to get rid of problems usually only ends up making them worse. Tonight, it’s as good an idea as he’s heard in months.


End file.
